I touched a scorpion; it struck.
It was my fault; I had been warned –
But for one split second
Its beauty-fascination wrenched me
From reason’s ice.
I don’t think anyone could find a scorpion ugly,
They shine too.
Writhing and smarting from the sting
I lashed out, struck on something soft
I could not see.
Again pure venom’s shudder,
Then eagles, condors
Circled, launched and swooped.
Did they fly in my slipstream, I in theirs?
Through what was what transcended?
Who had been the real scorpion?